


Pillow Talk

by 221b_hound



Series: Lock and Key [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Post-His Last Vow, Scent Kink, Sex on Furniture, Tattoos, they're having sex all over the flat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3549359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets home late from work and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.  John walks through the flat, distracted by memories of all the excellent sex they've been having, and finally finds Sherlock asleep in the upstairs room - apparently having fallen asleep mid-wank while inhaling the scent of John's pillow. Well, you should always finish what you start, John thinks...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> I've been very busy working on a novel that's nearing completion, but as Atlinmerrick pointed out the other day, it's very important to reward yourself for your hard work by writing a bit of relaxing porn. 
> 
> Ta da!

“Sod this,” John bitched, unwinding his scarf as he came through the landing door, ready to drape the scarf on its hook, “Bedford was late for his shift again. At least when I’m late I’m out solving bloody crime, not getting lost in the World of Warcraft and missing my train. Git.”

He paused on the rug and noticed the utter absence of Sherlock Holmes in the kitchen or sitting room. He frowned, thinking Sherlock might have picked up a case and not texted him, but no, there was Sherlock’s phone on the table, and his Belstaff and scarf were still on their hook, so…

John padded into the downstairs bedroom. An open book, face down, was on the nightstand. Empty teacup sat beside it and, mysteriously, the sitting room TV’s remote control. The bed was still an unmade tangle from this morning.

John grinned in memory of the quickie hand job, the feel of Sherlock’s cock slick in his hand, the taste of his skin on John’s tongue, and god, the sounds Sherlock made, panting, moaning, the way he said John’s name as John inhaled the syllable on Sherlock’s exhale, and kissed him like he was giving it back again. The faint creak of the bed frame against wall and floor. The scent of sweat and of hair product and, as Sherlock arched and came, of sex, smearing all over them. Sherlock had waited until John was dressed and having toast and tea before sauntering out in nothing but his modesty – which was to say, completely nude – and crawling under the table to suck John off. John’s protests had been half hearted and short lived, but he’d had a damned lovely orgasm and managed to not spill tea all over himself – and even to get to work on time.

_Bloody Bedford._

John retraced his steps to the kitchen – the site of this morning’s excellent blow job (and his memory was flooded now with that last image of Sherlock sprawled like a Renaissance reclining nude underneath the table, looking relaxed and insufferably pleased with himself, cock swelling valiantly for a second go that John had the willingness but not the time for).

Through the sitting room next: he had visions of himself kneeling on his red armchair, presented, being rimmed like it was what Sherlock had been born to do, and of coming home one night to find Sherlock had bound his own knees, spread wide open, across the arms his black leather chair with two of John’s belts, and John keeping him there for two hours and three orgasms, using mouth, fingers and cock. And there was the window where they’d made such a display of themselves a few weeks ago, and the sofa which had been the site of only a handful of the many scenarios they’d concocted for its pleasurable use.

John’s cock, already showing significant interest since the bedroom, thickened further. The fact was, they still hadn’t formally moved into one bedroom. Nominally, they still had separate rooms, but in practice, _all_ rooms were _their_ rooms. Their clothes were randomly split between upstairs and downstairs. John had given up trying to keep things organised: only disguises, his old army kit and out of season stuff were meant to go upstairs, and everyday wear downstairs, but everything ended up everywhere. Except for the sock index, and John was pretty sure by now that Sherlock’s sock index had been invented solely to piss John off.

Clothing aside, John and Sherlock these days slept in whichever room was handiest for whatever reason. They also had sex pretty much in whatever room – and on whatever bit of furniture – occasion and their flexibility suggested.

It had taken them such a long time to get here, to the time being right at last for them to be together, and now it seemed they were making up for all the lost time.

So now John stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to his old room, with a pleasantly growing erection pressing against his zipper and an anticipatory grin on his face. The door was closed, which was unusual and possibly very, very promising.

John, moving stealthy as a cat, went up the stairs, avoiding the third one that squeaked and the fifth one that kind of croaked. At the bedroom door, he listened.

Soft but heavy breathing ensued from within. Deep and even. Indicating sleep.

John was mildly disappointed, though he felt that Sherlock might yet be persuaded to assist him with his post-work stress relief. He placed his hand on the handle, slowly turned it and opened the door a fraction.

There was Sherlock on the bed, asleep, still in his pale blue button-up, though half the buttons had come adrift. His trousers were in disarray around one ankle, and from this angle his bare arse was gloriously on show.

Sherlock had his nose pressed into the pillow he held under his cheek. The bed’s other pillow was clamped between his legs, pressed up close to his crotch.

John, unable to resist, took a long, refreshing look at the rise of that bare arse and the taper down muscular thighs and calves to Sherlock’s surprising long and agile feet. He followed the curves up the other direction and found himself smiling indulgently at Sherlock’s sleeping face.

He crept further into the room, pulled up a chair and patted Sherlock’s bum. Then he sat down, put his feet on the bed and continued to drink his fill of the semi-clad beauty on display until Sherlock opened an eye and saw him.

“You’re late home,” Sherlock muttered over his shoulder.

“Yeah. Bedford’s a twat. So. Did you get bored and decide to start without me, then? And is that my pillow you’re despoiling down there?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What would be the point of that?” He shifted on the bed so that he lay on his back, but the pillow between his thighs remained firmly in place.

He didn’t explain his comment further, leaving it to John to work out what he meant.

John thought about how Sherlock’s nose had been nuzzled right into the pillow – John’s pillow, apparently.

And John thought about the one day he’d finally been able to step into Sherlock’s room after the nightmare of St Bart’s and the suicide. How, after long frozen moments at the doorway, he’d crawled over the bedcovers, like a man crawling over coals to reach salvation, to the pillows – to clutch them, to hold them hard against his face and breathe in the scent of the man he had loved and whom he had watched die.

He’d been curled up like that – the pillow in his arms, pressed to his face, inhaling a memory of everything he had lost and realised too late he wanted and would now never have – for twenty minutes before he could make his limbs stop shaking. Then he’d fled Baker Street, and not returned until he’d gone to see Mrs Hudson, years later, to tell her he had met someone new.

John hadn’t meant to take himself down that dark patch of memory lane, and he was aware that Sherlock was frowning at him. John smiled back, ruefulness transforming into wicked humour as he did.

“The one down there’s only for friction,” John pointed out, “Mine’s the one you’ve been hugging” – Sherlock rolled his eyes at the notion he was hugging anything – “For olfactory stimulation.”

Sherlock grinned. “This room does provide a lot of olfactory stimulation when you’re away.”

Puzzled, John tilted his head, but then he realised that this room did smell different to Sherlock’s. He wondered…

“Gun oil,” supplied Sherlock to his unasked question, “Your leather polish, very good quality, which you use on the belt of your old dress uniform, and the dress shoes. Your aftershave.”

“Sex,” said John, staring pointedly at Sherlock’s arse.

“I haven’t climaxed yet,” said Sherlock, “It’s not as interesting on my own, and besides, there didn’t seem much point in pre-empting your imminent return, back when it was supposed to be imminent.”

“So you’ve still got a chubby, have you?”

The response was an eyeroll.

“So go on,” said John, his voice suddenly low and husky. “Show me how you do it, Sherlock. How do you bring yourself off in my old bed when I’m not here. I want to see this.”

Sherlock, the hussy, grinned. Ever the show-off, ever prepared to pull out all the stops to impress John, Sherlock first rolled onto his side so that he faced John and regarded him with shameless challenge. Then he gathered the pillow in his arms close to his face and nuzzled into it. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled and nudged his nose into it again. He held the pillow there with one hand, rubbing his face against the cotton like a cat.

With the other hand, he reached down and pressed the second pillow – the one purely for friction – against his crotch. He spread his legs a little wider and then he began to grind against the pillow.

He did it with such concentration, too. His heavy-lidded expression as he chased the scent captured in the first pillow’s cotton weave (shampoo, perspiration, gun oil, John didn’t know what else) was beatific, and the roll of his hips, the spread of his thighs, the way his fingers flexed as they held the second pillow over his hidden erection, was wanton.

A breathy moan sighed out of him next, and he lipped at the top pillow too now, like it would taste of John as well as carry his scent.

“John…” huffed Sherlock, and then he moaned again, and the hand below squeezed the pillow hard, and John knew that through that odd filter, Sherlock was squeezing his own cock.

John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. Sherlock changed the angle of his thrusts, pushing up into his hand on the other side of that pillow. John gasped and his breathing became fast, sharp. He toed off his shoes as he watched Sherlock thrust against the lower pillow. Sherlock moaned and buried his face in the upper one, so replete with John’s scent, gathering in a mouthful of loose fabric against his tongue and then goddamn _suckling_ on it.

His hips pumped faster. The way Sherlock’s full, curved backside tightened and pushed against the cloth set a rhythm by which John undid his top button; popped the button of his right cuff; then of his left; the top button of his trousers. Sherlock moaned, and the long sighing sound accompanied the long, artificial susurration of John’s zipper sliding down.

“Christ,” John breathed, overcome with watching Sherlock’s desire, “Fuck, look at you.”

Sherlock opened one eye narrowly, his expression heavy with lust and invitation. Then he closed his eyes, returned to suckling and nuzzling the pillow, and spread his legs so wide that the uppermost was in fact raised some inches in the air. And he thrust and thrust again.

John pulled his still-buttoned shirt straight over his head. He stood and tugged off trousers and pants. He knelt on the side of the bed and ran his hands over Sherlock’s thighs, and then under the raised leg, warm hand gripped just under the knee, to keep it raised.

Sherlock’s hips jerked faster, and his hand kneaded and pressed the pillow to his cock.

“No, no, no,” murmured John in a protest he didn’t quite understand himself, until a moment later he was tugging the friction pillow free of Sherlock’s grasp. He bent to kiss Sherlock’s cock, then his tightening sac and then the soft, warm skin of his inner thigh.

Then John slotted himself between Sherlock’s thighs, settling Sherlock’s raised knee over his hip, and he pressed himself all along Sherlock’s body. One hand he wriggled between the scent pillow and Sherlock’s cheek, and he slid his thumb into Sherlock’s mouth, open and waiting for it. Sherlock closed his lips over the thumb and sucked on it, hard. The other hand, John clamped over Sherlock’s backside, kneading and pulling at him until their bodies, their cocks, were hard-pressed together.

Sherlock pulled off John’s thumb with a moist sound, then shifted. He used his thighs wrapped around John’s hips to push him more onto his back, then once more spreading his legs wide and thrusting hard. His blue shirt fell open, the cloth draping round his back and arse, falling open highlight his lean musculature and the dark lines of the key tattoo on his pale breast.

His cock dragged along John’s, too dry, but the slickness that had gone to the pillow was soon replaced, both men wet and sliding easily with desire. John arched up and pulled Sherlock onto him; Sherlock flexed arse, hips, lower back, to maximise pressure and drag.

John’s teeth scraped along Sherlock’s jaw, and then he licked the crease at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and then his tongue was sliding against Sherlock’s inside lip, against Sherlock’s tongue, and then their mouths were pushing hot and wet together, like their bodies below. One of Sherlock’s hands was flexing against John’s skull, buried in his hair, and other was splayed against John’s lower back, and then his arse, pulling him close. Their cocks, hot and hard and wet and slippery, surged against each other, thickening one final time as climax stole up on them.

And then they were moaning and gasping and making sounds that were probably each other’s names, but came out as a series of ecstatically debauched vowels and consonants, barely recognisable as words but ardently clear in meaning anyway.

John’s arms flopped back on the mattress and he lay, panting and grinning, under Sherlock’s weight. Sherlock insinuated his nose into the hollow under John’s jaw and with a few final experimental thrusts that confirmed John was too sensitive and that he, too, was all fucked out for now, Sherlock subsided into a warm, contented lump on top of John.

“You’re heavy,” wheezed John.

Sherlock kissed him and deigned to wriggle far enough to one side to ease the pressure on John’s lungs. John laughed, a cheerful giggle that showed he didn’t really mind, and patted Sherlock’s bum with his closest hand.

“You know,” he confessed after a moment, “When I left Baker Street after you’d… after. I found one of your old gloves in my packing. Just the one. It still smelled like tobacco and a bit like your aftershave. I should have thrown it away, but I… couldn’t. On bad days I…” John closed his eyes. “I put it on. Stupid I know.”

 _But it was where your hand had been. It was almost like you were holding it again, like that night when we ran._ But John couldn’t bring himself to say that, yet.

Sherlock said nothing, but he raised a hand to caress John’s shoulder.

“Of course, the scent started to fade from it, and that’s when I decided I wanted something more permanent to take its place. So I began looking into tattoos, and one day I walked past the place Raphael worked. Turned out he was a fan of the blogs – yours and mine. I stopped in to talk to him a lot after that. It was nice to talk to someone who believed in you but hadn’t been part of… well.”

The fingers on his shoulder stroked his skin softly, soothingly.

“I talked to him about you the way Ella always wanted me to, but never could. Not to her. I eventually told him I wanted a tattoo and he took everything I said and drew the lock. So I got it done and never told a soul. Living with you, knowing you, what you were like just in the day to day – that had been mine. And this was mine. Not for sharing.”

He stared at the ceiling, feeling foolish, wondering why he’d said any of it. They’d never been good at this stuff, and even now they found it awkward. Sherlock detested sentiment, and John was often not too comfortable with it either.

But this time, Sherlock tilted his head to kiss John’s scarred left shoulder and then to kiss the tattoo under his cheek. He laid his head back down over the lock tattoo and spoke to John’s skin, not meeting his eyes.

“I developed a particular attachment to the scent, separately or in combination, of gun oil, damp wool and that citrus and lavender bath bomb you used to favour when I was away for several days. Yes, of course I noticed,” he said, frowning, at some signal of surprise transmitted through John’s body. “It was a dangerous attachment while I was gone. On one occasion while I was in Croatia, the scent of oil, wool and lavender caught me almost off guard. It smelled so overpoweringly of _here_ that the assassin almost hit his mark. But it couldn’t have been you, _obviously_ , so I threw him down four flights of stairs. Mostly for having the temerity to not be you and making me miss you.”

John’s arm slid around Sherlock’s waist, under the shirt, and held tight for a minute. All right. So maybe they were getting a little better at it now: post-orgasm, bonelessly relaxed and not having to look earnestly into each other’s eyes. It felt more natural, like this.

“John.”

“Hmm?”

“Next time…”

“Next time?”

“I want you to show me how _you_ do it. When I’m not here and you think of me.”

“Hmmmm.” John’s contented hum turned into a giggle. “Deal.”


End file.
